


You're the Inspiration

by waywardrose



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Fluff, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 05:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: Flip sat in his switched off car and stared at the dark house. He wanted to break something.





	You're the Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous #1 said: Prompt I (inspiration) with Flip and Reader if you can please : )  
Anonymous #2 said: Hello! Would you have time to do prompt Y with Flip Zimmerman x Reader? Thanks for all your writing!
> 
> Hello, my darlings! 💋 Thank you for the prompts! I hope it’s okay I combined them. I felt they went together. (Also, I apologize it’s taken me so long to get to this. I’ve been having medical complications. 👎)
> 
> **Inspiration** \- _Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?_  
**Yearning** \- _How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?_
> 
> Prompts from the [Fluff Alphabet](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com/post/186447745297/fluff-alphabet)

Flip sat in his switched off car and stared at the dark house. He wanted to break something. Though, he knew he wouldn’t. Because then you’d be pissed at him. And he certainly didn’t want that.

In the past, he would’ve gone to the range to shoot some holes in silhouette targets. He would be there for hours, skipping dinner and ignoring everyone. He would come home to drink too much and pass out in his chair in front of the television.

But that wasn’t an option anymore. He didn’t know if he resented it or not.

It was infinitely better for his liver, that was for sure.

He combed his hair away from his face. It was pissing him off. Sitting in the cooling car was pissing him off, too. He snarled and got out, slamming the door closed behind him.

The late-afternoon sun was now in his eyes. It impaired his getting the mail out of the box. He fucking hated coming home this early—before you. The sun irritated him. The dim, empty house irritated him. It was too goddamn quiet.

He shrugged off his sport jacket and hurled it onto the bed. He shouldn’t have bothered with it. He shoved his gun into the safe in the closet and shrugged off his holster. The court wasn’t respecting the team’s evidence, so why should he bother to dress respectfully. He plopped down on the bed to pull off his boots and socks.

“Checkers” Smaldone was only getting a slap on the wrist. That shit-heel, professor-looking motherfucker got sixty days in county jail for _gun possession_. Flip knew Smaldone been behind at least one of those murders. The judge knew it, too, but Smaldone had pleaded guilty to the guns. So that was what the state decided to pursue.

The fucking cowards.

Flip wiggled his toes in the carpet and took a deep breath. The lone consolation was that Smaldone was serving time. Again. He was old, too, and prison was never kind.

He looked at the clock by the bed to see there was still an hour before you came home. He didn’t know how to fill the silence. You always knew, or you knew how to read him. Or maybe you needed the same thing.

One thing was certain: You’d appreciate if he started dinner. That much he knew.

He went to the kitchen, turned on the radio, and retrieved the makings for Hawaiian kabobs from the fridge. He got a big saucepan of water heating to cook rice. With the big chef knife in hand, he made quick work of the purple onion, red pepper, pineapple, and pork. It was strangely satisfying to hack everything down to bite-size pieces and then impale the pieces on a skewer.

After putting the kabobs in a dish, covering them with soy sauce, pineapple juice, and honey and letting them marinate for a bit in the fridge, he regarded the kitchen. You kept the place so nice. Not that he didn’t help maintain it, but it was you who made the house someplace good.

He made himself a whiskey on the rocks. It was booze o'clock somewhere. And he deserved it.

As he poured rice into the now-boiling water, the front door opened. You announced you were home as you came inside. His shoulders relaxed just from hearing your voice.

“Kitchen,” he replied as he settled a lid on the saucepan.

You stepped into the kitchen looking a little rumpled from work. You had a wrinkled shopping bag in your hand and a playful look on your face. He ignored the bag and hugged you tight, burying his nose in your hair. He wanted to tell you how glad he was you were home and about the trial and that he’d started dinner. Instead, he basked in the feel of you against him and the lingering scent of your perfume.

“Hey, honey,” you said, a smile in your voice, and hugged him.

“Hi, baby.”

“I got us a little treat.”

He pulled back and let his hands rest on your hips. “Yeah?”

You held up the bag with a grin, and he stepped away to give you room. You placed the bag on the nearest counter and pulled out the second best thing he’d seen all day: boxes of Girl Scout cookies.

“Ooooh, hell yeah,” he blurted and pressed himself to your side.

You’d gotten three boxes of Samoas—his favorite. There were boxes of Thin Mints and Tagalongs as well. You pulled out a box of Trefoils and explained they’d be good with coffee.

Flip turned you to him and cupped your face in his hands. Curiosity colored your features, and you asked, “What?”

He shook his head and leaned in to kiss you. You made a contented sound and kissed him back. He didn’t know how you did it—giving him things he didn’t know he wanted. You lessened the sting of partial defeat just by being you. He was grateful you were his wife, that you were in his life.

“Thank you,” he whispered and went back to kissing you.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com)


End file.
